Diary of a Shota Boy - Part 14

Simon-Peter and I were dejectedly sifting through the ruins, searching for any place that looked like it might have a surviving cellar or outbuilding where we might find shelter and something to eat. But, where houses once stood, there were now endless piles of bricks and rubble. The houses that weren't completely demolished were all bombed-out, with the scorching still visible around the holes where the windows once were, the tell-tale signs of the inferno that must have ensued. Nothing was left intact. Everything was smashed beyond recognition. Walking through all this devastation was quite eerie, but we tramped on through the rubble regardless, with me still holding on to Simon-Peter's little hand.

It was Simon-Peter who spoke, after a long silence, looking up at me meekly.

'Cloud?'

'Yes little one?'

'Did I do sumthin wong?'

I stared at him, puzzled.

'What do you mean?'

'Are you angwy with me?'

I smiled and leaned towards him, stroking his cheek tenderly as we walked.

'No,' I said, in a kindly tone, 'I'm not angry with you. I could never be angry with you.'

He seemed to breathe a sigh of relief at that, apparently reassured. But it was clear that he felt responsible for us failing to get on that transporter.

'It's my fault we're lost, isn't it?'

'Don't worry about it,' I assured him, 'We'll figure something out.'

He looked at me for a few moments, trying to assess whether I was genuine, then he went right back to staring at the ground.

It was true. I felt no resentment or anger towards Simon-Peter. He was just a little boy and still quite naïve in many ways. He didn't deserve all this. He had been unable to leave Howard the bear behind, in the same way as I was unable to leave Simon-Peter behind. In some strange way, Simon-Peter was my Howard the bear, like a responsibility that each of us had.

Presently, we came across a bombed-out house that was now open to the elements, the walls just about still standing, but the roof completely gone. The center of the plot was piled high with hunks of broken plaster, scorched wooden beams and smashed roof tiles. But there was a little wooden hatch in the ground and a clear space in the rubble that had obviously been well used. It looked promising. It looked like the remains of an entrance to what might have been the cellar. It was certainly worth investigating. But when we approached, we were suddenly stopped dead in our tracks by a high-pitched shout.

'Stop!'

I looked around and had to focus on something way over the other side of the derelict plot. I saw a young boy perched on top of the pile of rubble, sitting very high up on the exposed lintel of one of the bombed-out windows. He startled us. I realized he must have been watching us.

'Stop right there!' he shouted.

Balancing precariously on the broken bricks, he started to clamber down the pile of rubble towards us. I watched him as he approached, expertly negotiating the twisted pipes and cracked wooden beams that were protruding from the rubble. The boy was slim and quite small in stature, and had long straight hair that was a dark reddish brown. It was an unusual color, like a shade of rust. His voice was quite high-pitched, yet authoritative and commanding. I guessed he must have been about 10 or 11.

He came closer and we could see that the boy was grimy and ragged. Ever since the war began, boys of all ages wandered the ruins and bombsites of Verolino looking dazed and bedraggled. He was wearing a rather smart waistcoat which looked out of place with the rest of his torn and dirty clothes. His undershirt and jeans were dusty and soiled. The streets were full of ragged boys like him, and yet there was something very different about this particular boy. There was an alertness in his eyes, an astuteness in his expression, and a defiance in his stance.

'You can't come in here,' he said, resolutely.

He stepped forward, barring our way into what was once the doorway of the derelict house. It had been virtually reduced to rubble, and only the lower part of the outer walls was still standing, so I wondered what it was he was guarding.

'Why?' I asked.

'Cos you can't,' he said, with a scowl, exposing his perfect little teeth.

He was menacing and irritated. But he was also very beautiful, with a clear, pearly complexion which contrasted with his rusty hair and he had big, round, liquid eyes and very full, red lips.

'You don't own the street,' I said, loath to be cowed by his threatening behavior.

He took another step forward, then he seemed to puff out his chest so that his unbuttoned waistcoat fell open, and I saw the heavy pistol sticking out of the front of his pants. It was stuffed awkwardly into the waist of his dirty, baggy jeans.

'Says who?'

He let the pistol speak for itself. I recoiled at the sight of it.

'We're just looking for something to eat,' I explained, 'We're hungry and exhausted.'

He was reminded that I was accompanied by Simon-Peter, who was still standing a little behind me still wearing his little backpack, with Howard the bear dangling from one hand.

The boy peered over my shoulder and he saw Simon-Peter standing there.

'Who are you?' he demanded, lowering his eyebrows with suspicion.

'We're shota boys,' I said, 'Our club was bombed and we're lost. Can you help us?'

He seemed to perk up at that.

'Shota boys?' he queried, 'Really?'

'Yes,' I nodded, 'My name's Cloud and this is my protégé Simon-Peter.'

I glanced back at Simon-Peter who was pursing his lips hopefully, appealing to this boy to help us. The boy looked Simon-Peter up and down and seemed to mellow instantly.

'Okay,' he said, still a little wary, 'I'll help you, but if you try anything, you're toast. Got it?'

And as he said it, he withdrew the pistol from his pants and fingered it ominously, as if to emphasize that he was in charge. Then he stepped back, reached down, and hauled open the heavy wooden hatch in the floor using a recessed handle. It opened up, and he walked around behind us, waving the heavy weapon in his hand as if herding us into the cellar.

There were steep steps leading down into the ground. We stepped into the hatchway, and clattered down the dusty wooden steps into the depths of the cellar. The boy followed us down and closed the hatch behind him, blocking out the daylight. Our eyes took a few moments to adjust to the darkness. There were many lighted candles placed about the room, creating a myriad of eerie flickering shadows on the damp stone walls. The ceiling was oppressively low, but the room was deceptively large. It was much larger than was implied by the modest house that once stood above it.

At the bottom of the steps, we stopped and looked around and after a few seconds, I saw that the cellar was full of other scruffy-looking boys. They aged from about 4 years right up into their teens. They were all huddled into the corners, some on their own, some in twos or threes. The older ones cuddled the younger ones. Some were lying down on low bunks. Others sitting cross-legged on blankets on the floor. They were all staring wide-eyed at us. All had grimy faces and ragged clothes. A few were barefooted. It was like a little rat's nest, a veritable underground community of feral boys.

Finally from the back of the semi-dark room, a wooden door creaked open which must have led to an adjoining chamber of the cellar, and another boy stepped out of the shadows. He was better dressed than the others, with a leather bikers jacket that was a little dusty and jeans which had a rather pronounced rip on one knee. It was gaping open, so that you could see his knee and part of his smooth but well-developed thigh. He was probably closer to my age, maybe 12 or 13, and he was very handsome, with long, floppy, raven-black hair and dark, deep-set, mysterious eyes.

'Who was it Spider?' he enquired.

His voice was commanding and superior. Immediately I knew he had authority around here. He was probably the pack leader.

'This is Cloud and Simon-Peter,' Spider explained.

'What do they want?' the pack leader demanded.

Spider approached him sheepishly.

'They want food and a bed for the night,' he said.

'They got any money?'

'They're shota boys,' said Spider, in a tone that made it quite clear that we wouldn't be needing any money.

'Is that so?' the pack leader iterated with a note of cynicism, coming closer to study us further.

Just like Spider, his interest was aroused by the news of us being shota boys, like that carried some weight around here.

I took Simon-Peter's hand and stepped closer to him for reassurance. Simon-Peter stood next to me, looking up at me, and I could feel his little hand squeeze mine apprehensively. At that moment I felt we were pretty vulnerable, totally at the mercy of these lawless boys, and there was no knowing what they were likely to do.

The pack leader leaned towards me and stared at me closely. I could smell the faded leather of his jacket as he did so.

'You got anything on you?' he asked.

'No,' I said, assuming he meant weapons of some kind.

He started to go through my pockets, reaching out and feeling my hip pockets and patting down my chest. Spider had the pistol trained on me. The pack leader felt all the way down my legs, my ankles and even feeling into my crotch. He sure knew how to do a thorough pat-down. He detected a soft lump in my breast pocket and burrowed his hand in to see what it was. He brought out a handful of rather sorry-looking cigarettes. They were the cigarettes that Aynan had given me.

'I'll have those,' he said, deciding that he was going to keep them, and immediately transferred them into the inside pocket of his leather bikers jacket.

I gave him a killing look. I wasn't sorry to lose the cigarettes. I was just annoyed that he had decided to help himself.

Pausing for a moment, he seemed to be surveying me with a kind of curious admiration. Maybe he was shedding some of his frostiness. He stood back for a moment and I detected an air of approval from him.

'A real shota boy, huh?'

He looked me up and down as though taking in my proportions.

'You fuck?' he asked, tersely, like it was some kind of gauche invitation.

'He's only a novice,' I said, hoping to dissuade his interest in Simon-Peter.

The pack leader scowled at me.

'That's not what I asked you, is it?'

I was acutely aware of Simon-Peter's inexperience. It was true that he was just a novice, but I hoped that Simon-Peter would understand that our survival was at stake here. I didn't know what these boys were likely to do to us, but we had to do whatever we needed to, if not just to survive the night.

'Yeh, he fucks,' I said, 'He fucks good.'

'Alright then, show us your shit,' the leader demanded.

Showing your shit was a term we used for pleasuring yourself to an audience. There was a demand for a certain type of shota boy who just liked to play with their dick and balls and show them off. Sometimes my tricks wanted to watch me do that. You didn't necessarily need to have a stiffie, but in most cases it involved playing with your cock until it got hard, and more often than not, jerking yourself to orgasm. That was showing your shit.

'Food first,' I said, determined to stem his impatience.

He took a deep breath, and seemed to mellow a little. Apparently he was prepared to accede to that.

'Scamp!' he called out, without taking his eyes off me.

I could hear a frantic scrabbling from the back of the room and a little shirtless boy came forward out of the semi-darkness and stood there subserviently. He was younger than the other two, closer in age to Simon-Peter. This little shirtless boy was wearing dirty knee-length cargo pants and he was barefoot. He had an unkempt shock of whitish blond hair that stuck up in a big tangled halo, and was so matted that it looked like it had never been brushed. He had beautiful bright blue eyes that shone with the vibrancy of little boy exuberance and were very prominent against his dirty face. His cheeks were grimy. His body was lithe and slim, and very pretty, but dusty with ingrained dirt. I noticed the way his cargo pants hung very low down on his hips, exposing the full expanse of his flat little tummy, so that you could see the little V of his abdomen. They were barely high enough to cover his smooth crotch. It was clear he had no underwear on and the loose waistband was nestling just above where his hairless little dickie would be.

'Get two,' the pack leader ordered, still standing there and holding us in place with his stare.

Scamp padded off in his bare feet. I noticed, as he turned away, that he had quite an ugly and prominent diagonal scar on one side of his back, very low down. It was about three inches long, and a dark purple in color. I wondered if perhaps these boys were all survivors of something horrible.

Scamp came back with two small pre-packed meal pouches. They were sealed in a pale brown plastic wrapping. He tossed them down onto a heavy trestle table and, without saying anything, pulled up two high wooden chairs, as though setting places for dinner. He used both hands to maneuver the chairs into place, even though they seemed quite heavy for his tiny frame, and I watched the way he bit his lip as he hauled the chairs over, scraping them across the wooden floor, his pink little tongue protruding with the effort.

'Sit,' said the pack leader brusquely, gesturing towards the table with a nod of his head.

We took off our backpacks and I led Simon-Peter over to the table. We sat next to each other, the two pre-packed meal pouches in front of us.

Spider dragged up another chair and sat exactly opposite us, ominously placing his heavy pistol on the table in front of him. The pack leader came over and sat next to him. They were both anxious to watch us and were studiously surveying us as we settled at the table.

'Eat,' the pack leader said.

All his phrases were clipped and abrupt. He was clearly a boy of few words.

'Thanks,' I said.

I looked down at the pre-packed meal pouches and picked one up. It had MEAL READY TO EAT - INDIVIDUAL written on the front, and lower down, in smaller lettering US GOVERNMENT PROPERTY. They were clearly US Army rations. No doubt purloined by this band of ragamuffins, these street urchins who were reminiscent of some kind of Victorian novel, looking for all intents like some modern-day equivalent of the Baker Street Irregulars.

I turned to Simon-Peter and held up the pouches.

'Which do you want?' I asked him, 'Beef teriyaki or meatloaf with gravy?'

'Meatloaf with gwavy,' he said.

I tore open the plastic seal and handed him the opened pack. He didn't seem to know what to do with it. So I showed him. I tore the seal on my MRE and kneaded the semi-soft contents inside, between my fingers, squeezing the food up to the opening and into my mouth. Simon-Peter understood. He put the opened end of the pouch into his mouth and sucked out the contents, stuffing as much as he could into his mouth. His cheeks were bulging as he started chewing. Poor boy. He was ravenous. We hadn't eaten since yesterday morning.

'It's cold,' he said, with his mouth full, more as an observation than an objection.

'Yeah, life's a bitch ain't it?' said Spider, from across the table, quite unsympathetically.

Simon-Peter was right of course. These US Army rations were designed to be heated for consumption, but there was no means of doing that here. No matter. We were grateful just to get some nourishment inside us.

'Drink?' the pack leader asked.

Simon-Peter and I nodded simultaneously, impetuously swallowing big mouthfuls as we chewed on our rations.

'Scamp! Get them the house wine,' he ordered.

Spider smiled, faintly amused by that, and I could hear Scamp giggling in the background, which helped to lighten the atmosphere a little. It was good to see they had a sense of humor.

Scamp brought two bottles of Coke and set them down in front of us, the caps already levered off.

'Drink,' said the pack leader, 'It's a good vintage.'

Scamp giggled again. He was very cute when he chuckled like that.

The little bottles of Coke were a welcome sight. Their iconic and familiar design was like a friendly presence in this uncertain environment. It was also an indication that these boys were quite organized and had been here long enough to have established themselves into a quite orderly little microcosm. It was clear that they had been here long before the fall of Verolino. Perhaps since the war in Europe first began.

'Is there anything you don't have?' I asked, wondering how they had acquired all these things.

'We get by,' said the pack leader, and that was all he was prepared to say.

I took a quick swig from the bottle and savored the sweet, biting drink. Simon-Peter was so thirsty he drank two thirds of his Coke almost immediately, letting out an involuntary little belch. Scamp giggled again.

'So, you gonna tell us what you're doing here?' the pack leader began again.

'I told you, we're lost,' I said, between mouthfuls.

'Why should I believe you?' he replied.

'Why so defensive?' I countered, 'You got nothing worth hiding, far as I can see.'

Spider turned to look at him, and they exchanged serious glances.

'What would YOU know?' said the pack leader, contemptuously.

'Don't tell me, you're working for the resistance?' I said mockingly, becoming a little fed up of their reticence and over-cautiousness.

There had been a resistance movement in Verolino in the early days of the war, before it was a UN-declared safe haven. The civilian population had organized themselves to fight occupation prior to UNVERO moving in. Now that UNVERO were gone, it was safe to assume that the resistance movement would re-emerge.

Spider picked up the pistol and pointed it at me, deactivating the safety catch. Obviously I had just said something rather sensitive.

The pack leader gestured to him to put the gun down.

'But Kenni!' Spider objected.

So the pack leader's name was Kenni.

Kenni waved away Spider's objections, indicating that he was in control of the situation. Spider reluctantly laid the pistol down again.

'We're just looking out for ourselves,' Kenni said, 'We ain't with the resistance, we ain't with the VLA and we ain't with the KAPOs.'

His voice took on a note of contempt when he mentioned the KAPOs.

'Murdering bastards,' Spider added, mumbling under his breath.

It was as though they all harbored some deep, underlying grudge against the KAPO militia for some reason. That was at least one thing we seemed to have in common, although for myself, having encountered Aynan, I knew that not all KAPOs were bad.

'Well, I'm not that fond of them either,' I concurred, thinking of my experience at the hands of the KAPO captain, 'My experiences with them haven't exactly been a laugh a minute.'

It was meant to be sarcastic. There was a running joke in the wider community that shota boys were notoriously averse to using lube. I could never see the funny side, seeing as it was true. Lube just deadened the sensation of getting my ass rooted. I preferred to feel the friction of cock skin chafing against the lining of my chute. Lube felt squishy in my hole, and left a horrible greasy residue for days afterwards. You couldn't even shit it out. No thanks. Gimme an unadulterated bareback cock any day.

'Those bastards would sell their own mothers,' said Kenni with contempt.

'I know,' I said, 'They forcefucked me and beat me and left me for dead.'

Within seconds the little blond boy was standing obediently at the end of the table, looking at Kenni expectantly.

'C'mere,' said Kenni, beckoning him closer.

Scamp sidled up to Kenni. Kenni took hold of the little boy's tiny shirtless frame and spun him around, turning his back towards us. Kenni almost tucked the boy under his arm as he sat there, so that Scamp's little butt was pointed at us. His little cargo pants were so low down that you could almost see the top of the boy's butt crack. He had a beautiful little butt. Scamp didn't seem to mind being manhandled like that. He was very docile, very compliant and uncomplaining.

'See that?' said Kenni.

He was clearly demonstrating the angry purple scar on the little boy's back. It had the tell-tale cross hatchings where the incision had been crudely and inexpertly stitched back up.

'They took one of his kidneys.'

Kenni was genuinely angry. He held Scamp there for a few seconds, the boy's back turned towards us, and made sure we got a good look at the painful looking disfigurement. Scamp was patient and quiet, his diminutive body breathing silent little breaths, and Kenni looked at him with a very affectionate stare. I wondered, in that instant, if there was something going on between Kenni and Scamp. Scamp seemed very acquiescent to Kenni's rough handling, as though he was kinda used to it.

'How can they do that to a kid?' said Kenni, 'How?'

'What happened?' I asked, solicitously.

'We don't know exactly,' said Kenni, 'He's never been able to tell us. Scamp is mute.'

'Oh,' I said, almost regretting that I'd asked.

'Scamp has never spoken a word since,' Kenni explained.

'Poor kid,' I said, genuinely perturbed, and turned away in disgust.

Simon-Peter was looking at me with a worried, almost tearful look. I felt so sorry for him. He wasn't used to hearing of such horrors. He was innocent to the ways of the world, but since he had lost his father, and the fall of Verolino, he had seen many unanticipated horrors. In a way I wished he wasn't seeing any of this. I felt very protective towards him, and I would have preferred him to be spared these unpalatable truths.

I reached over and took Simon-Peter's little fist in mine, as a gesture of consolation. He smiled sadly. Kenni noticed that and seemed to mellow a little. I think he detected how much Simon-Peter meant to me. Perhaps it was on a par with his relationship with Scamp, I couldn't be sure, but at that moment Kenni's whole demeanor changed.

Kenni let Scamp go. The little boy straightened up and Kenni smiled and winked at him.

'Okay kiddo?' said Kenni, in a very affectionate way.

Scamp nodded and smiled back, and when he did I noticed how his two front teeth were missing. He was so cute. He held up his little hand, and made a quick, nimble gesture with his fingers. It was too quick for me to catch what it was. Obviously some kind of sign language. Then Scamp walked off quite happily, seemingly unperturbed, and went back to whatever he was doing. I watched him go and my heart melted for the little guy. I understood now why Scamp was so silent.

By now we had finished eating and put the empty packaging of our MREs aside, draining the last from our bottles of Coke.

Kenni reached into the inside pocket of his bikers jacket and brought out the cigarettes he had taken off me earlier. He had evidently changed his mind, and put them back on the table in front of me. They were rather crushed and all bent out of shape.

'Here you can have these back,' he said.

'No, it's okay,' I said, 'You keep them. I don't smoke.'

'In that case...' he said, and reached out and took one.

He stuck the cigarette in his lips.

'Scamp!' he called.

Within seconds Scamp appeared with one of the candles, which he held up for Kenni to light his cigarette. Kenni sucked hard, making the tip of the cigarette glow bright orange, and inhaled deeply, with all the aplomb of a seasoned smoker. He even took an appreciative look at the cigarette as it smoldered away between his knuckles. It was almost as though he had not had a cigarette for some time. Cigarettes were evidently one thing they didn't have around here, I surmised.

'So...' Kenni began again, exhaling smoke with the words, 'You gonna show us your shit now?'

I shrugged.

'If you like,' I said resignedly.

Kenni looked at Simon-Peter.

'Not him,' I said, 'He's not ready for that.'

Kenni seemed to understand and nodded his agreement.

'Lucky for you I prefer blonds,' said Kenni, with a wry smile.

I smiled back. It was the first overt indication he had given that he was into boys at all. I wondered if that was also a veiled reference to Scamp, and whether Kenni was maybe fucking the little blond boy. I rather liked the idea of those two boys together. Kenni was very handsome and Scamp was infinitely cute and fuckable.

'What you want me to do?' I asked him.

'You decide,' said Kenni, taking another drag on the cigarette.

I was surprised but relieved that he was prepared to allow me free reign. I had promised to show them my shit, so that's what I did. I guessed they had earned it, after sharing their food with us. It struck me that this was going to be the equivalent of singing for my supper.

This end of the room was well lit, so I decided to get up on the table. Spider stood up, taking the pistol with him, and he and Scamp moved the chairs away and cleared the table. Kenni went to beckon the other boys over. They had all been mostly out of earshot of our conversation, still secreted about the room in their own little corners, and mostly invisible amongst the shadows of the darkened alcoves of the cellar. But the news that I was going to give them a show brought them all shuffling forward and they formed a little semicircle around the table. The little ones came to the front, the older ones behind, and they studiously scrunched together with a murmur of anticipation. I guess there must have been about twenty boys in the room, all looking scruffy and neglected, but all wide-eyed and curious.

Kenni went over and leaned nonchalantly against the grimy wall, still enjoying the cigarette. I noticed the way he had a habit of flicking his head to shake his long, floppy hair out of his eyes. I thought that was very sexy. Next to him, Spider stood gingerly fingering the pistol close to his chest. Scamp sat obediently on one of the chairs, and I was rather delighted when Simon-Peter pulled up another chair and sat next to him. They even turned and smiled at each other. It was so cute.

First I removed my dusty shoes and grimy socks, discarding them on the floor under the table, then I took off my thin jacket, which I tossed over to Simon-Peter. Then I got up, sat on the edge of the table and swung my legs up, so I was kneeling on the table in just my shirt and jeans. I began by running my hand over my crotch sensuously, thrusting my hips a little, and rubbing my palm over my dick. I was already hard, and already horned up at the prospect of showing my shit to this captive audience of curious and admiring boys. I would have preferred them to see my little dick limp, and demonstrate it getting big and hard. That would have been more interesting for them. But my irrepressible little dick was already stiffly pressing against the front of my pants straining to be unleashed. I just couldn't help it. It was burning with hardness and I desperately wanted to jack it. Right now I wanted to spunk real bad and I was inordinately excited that they were going to witness it. I knew that with this many pairs of eyes all trained on me, focusing on my dick, perhaps all with stiff little dickies in their pants, I was gonna cum real hard.

Sensuously, I unbuttoned my shirt, and let it fall open, with one hand up around the back of my head. I had my head thrown back, eyes closed, mouth open in feigned ecstasy, and rubbed my crotch with my other hand. Next I opened my pants, exposing my boxer-briefs, and stuck my hand down the front, rubbing frantically and grabbing at my shit. It felt good. I grabbed my package real hard, clawing at my balls and running my hand under my balls right into my perineum, even getting a quick fingertip rub on the rim of my little star.

I peeled back my shirt and exposed my shoulders, letting my loose shirt fall off my arms and onto the table behind me. Now shirtless, I laid down on the table with my legs stretched out and propped myself up on one elbow. Tilting towards my little audience, my head still thrown back in mock pleasure, I ran my hands over my smooth chest, being sure to give a pronounced pinch on my pink little nipples. I made a little grimace at that, feigning a gasp of self-inflicted pain, along with a quick glimpse into my mouth, my lips opened ever so slightly, ever so tantalizingly. I stroked my flat tummy and then slowly went further down into my crotch again. I lifted my butt off the table and pulled my jeans down to my knees. Then I rolled over and pointed my leg at my audience. I never talked to the audience during these performances. It was important to retain that separation when you were showing your shit. But I still interacted with them, and indeed sometimes even compelled their participation. When I pointed my toes at the audience, just as I expected, the response was automatic. It was Kenni who approached the table. He knew exactly what to do. He looked deep into my eyes as he leaned over and pulled my jeans off me. I leaned back on my butt with my legs lifted, and he very efficiently whipped off the jeans in one swift action.

Now in just my boxer-briefs, I got back up on my knees, still lasciviously rubbing my hands all over my body, and thrust out my pelvis so they could clearly see my stiffie. It was trapped upwards and slightly to one side in my tight boxer-briefs, its outline clearly visible under the stretchy fabric. I pulled on it roughly, even through the material, and sought out a pair of eyes in the audience to focus on. I saw Simon-Peter over to one side squirming in his seat, one hand firmly embedded in his crotch. That pleased me. What a horny little boy he was. Next to him, Scamp was fixated on me, staring wide-eyed, his little jaw dropped open in a wondrous smile, showing his missing front teeth. His blue eyes and whitish blond hair were so cute. He was like some adorable little boy doll. But it was Kenni I chose to focus on. Though he was staring with a pretty nondescript expression, his dark eyes were gleaming with fascination. I stared into those eyes, boring right into his head as I pulled the waistband of my boxer-briefs down just a little so that the head of my dick was showing, and I just squirmed around like that for a bit. The skin was pulled down so that the shiny little purple head was poking out, and the tightness of the elastic against my frenulum actually hurt a little as it cut into the soft sensitive flesh.

When I had drawn out the anticipation long enough, I flipped down the front of my boxer-briefs and my stiff, heavily engorged little dick fell out, fully erect and the skin drawn back as though it was cocked for firing. The other boys gave off an audible gasp. That really heightened the eroticism. Tell the truth, I knew I was gonna cum real soon. My cock was burning with hardness and I really wanted to fuck it into something - or someone. I pulled my boxer-briefs down to my knees, then slipped them off, threading them down my calves. I tossed them at the audience, still warm from my body heat, and hit Kenni square in the face. To my delight, he grabbed the limp little garment as it slipped from his face, and took a long, heady sniff, his dark eyes gleaming with mischief. I smiled at that, and he seemed to giggle. I liked Kenni's spirit.

I was now completely naked. My body was fully on display, free from the cumbersome shackles of my clothing. Being naked in front of an audience was always strangely liberating. Turning my back to my audience, I decided they needed to see a bit of butt play. I knew I had a beautiful butt, firm and round and smooth, and my narrow hips made it perfect for fucking. I knew my little audience would appreciate it. I wiggled my hips a little from side to side and bent forward, spreading my knees so they could see my tight little balls. I pressed my face flat against the table top with my ass up in the air, and my stiffie pointing down, so they could get the full unobstructed view of all my shit and my pretty little star. I laid my cheek flat on the table and reached back with both hands, parting the perfect globes of my young ass, exposing my little rosebud for them, so they could see the entrance to paradise, my delicious boycunt puckered so invitingly behind my balls, ripe for one of their little boycocks to stab into it. I rubbed my fingertips around the rim, then stuck two fingers in, showing them how ready and accommodating my little snatch was. At this moment I was so fucking horned up I desperately wanted someone to fuck me. It wouldn't have mattered who. I just wanted to feel boyflesh rooting hard up my little chute.

After that, I got up and turned around, taking hold of my dick once more. I scooted towards the edge of the table on my knees and pointed it at Kenni. I could see Kenni was really getting into my little performance. I liked that. I did a bit more sensual massaging of my chest and tummy, a little nipple play, and then moved back down to my stiffie. I licked my fingertips and rubbed my spit on my cockhead, plucking the exposed end gently. I took the base between my splayed fingers, and teased it a bit, making it waggle erratically, touching it in every way except actually jacking it in my fist. I wanted them to see as much of my shaft as possible before I went in for bombs gone. When I was ready, and I knew I couldn't last much longer, I turned so that I was slightly sideways on, so they could get the full effect. That way they could appreciate the length of my boydick and observe the refinement in my stroke. Jacking my dick was a pastime I had perfected to suit my own requirements, which I was pretty sure was the case with all boys, but I had a particularly edifying technique. I leaned back slightly, arching my back, and thrust my hips forward to emphasize my dick length. Then I formed a little O shape with my thumb and index finger, rather than using a whole fist, so they could see my fingers stroking my long, thick shaft. I was careful to turn so that my jacking arm was furthest away from them, so as not to obscure their view, and I used long, firm, slow strokes so that the younger ones, who may not even have touched their little todgers yet, could get a good idea of what to do. I was moaning now, and tossing my blond head around. I knew I was gonna cum real hard with all these young eyes watching me. Quite possibly there were a few little stiffies in the audience, and I briefly imagined how many of these dirty little tykes were gonna pull their tiny todgers after watching this. That was so erotic. The thought of these boys spilling their little kiddie fuckwads in muted pleasure over my performance was just too much. In no time at all I could feel the burning pleasure become ever more insistent and I knew I was gonna have to shed my load. Close to ignition, I stretched out on the table and leaned back. I propped myself up on one elbow, so that I was tilted towards my audience, and positioned my jacking angle so that my dick was pointed up towards my chest. I thought it would be bad form to spunk all over their floor, or even on the table, so I decided to let it out all over my chest and tummy. It would be good for them to see my smooth hairless body being pelted by its own fuckjuice.

'I'm gonna cum!' I announced breathlessly, by now jacking faster and with more purpose.

My little audience seemed to shuffle forward, so that they closed in, anxious to see every detail of my finale. I jacked frantically. I couldn't help groaning quite loudly - it was quite involuntary - but the impending pleasure was tangible and overpowering. I felt my dick tighten up so good and my whole body tensed, and I knew it was bombs gone. I shuddered violently and shot my load, cumming pretty spectacularly. There was a gasp from my admiring audience. I managed to elicit three pretty strong squirts that came out almost in slow motion, each one stronger than the last so that I had three lashes of cloudy kidspunk streaked up my chest and tummy. One had hit my little innie belly button square on and was pooling inside. The other had been ejected slightly off centre and was trickling down my hip, whilst the strongest one was glistening right in the centre of my chest, in the groove of my breastbone. It was one of my best cumshots ever. Fuck, it was beautiful.

The boys let up a low murmur of awe, clearly mesmerized by my antics. When I had finished cumming, I had to round it off in the only way I knew how. As I came down from my high, I looked admiringly at my work, smiling at the sight of my young spunk glistening on my smooth body. I rubbed a little of it into my skin, using swirling motions with my fingertips, creating a greasy smear over my chest, until it was absorbed into my skin, leaving a slightly sticky residue. The boys seemed to like that. I loved the way my spunk gave off that familiar heady aroma of sexual fluids as it was absorbed into my skin. Then it was time to invite my audience to explore. I stopped and looked around at my spectators and held up my wet hand. My fingers were clenched in a loose fist with my own kiddiecum still drizzled over my knuckles. I offered it to my audience with a mischievous smile. It was Simon-Peter that popped up from his seat and came over, putting his hands obediently on the edge of the table and leaned over. Scamp came over with him, curious to see what he was going to do. Simon-Peter opened his lips, presenting his little mouth to me. He had the right idea. I held my hand up to his open mouth and let him lick it. He tilted his head this way and that, his slick little tongue lapping warmly over my spunk-stained hand, savoring every drop of my discarded boyjizz and even suckling on my fingers like a little puppy. I had pumped so much of my kidspunk down his throat recently I think he was quite partial to the taste. Taking his lead from Simon-Peter, Scamp dared to reach over and dab a curious little finger into the kidspunk that was pooled in my belly button. He looked at it studiously, smiling with fascination, and I could see the gap in his teeth where his front two baby incisors were missing. I couldn't help wondering if that little gap in his teeth made him more suited to cock-sucking, whether perhaps the absence of those two front teeth facilitated a better blowjob. Scamp was such a cute little thing, and I would have loved to test out my theory by sticking Little Cloud right into the back of his little mouth and feverishly fucking his cute blond head. Scamp then stuck out his tongue and licked his fingertip to take a tentative taste of my boyjizz. This certainly impressed the others, who were murmuring their approval, and they all decided to surround the table, closing in on me from all sides, eager to touch me and explore my body for themselves. I was in heaven. I just laid on the table naked and let them do what they liked.

Kenni put his hand gently on my cock and looked at me enquiringly, seeking my permission to play with it. I smiled and gave him a vague nod, showing him that he could do whatever he wanted. He smiled back gratefully, took hold of my wet little cock and squeezed it, as though trying it out for size. It sent a sharp jolt of pleasure all through me. But then, Kenni was such a handsome boy, with that long, floppy hair and deep-set eyes. He could have jacked me off to another cum almost immediately. His fist around my boydick was exquisite! He dipped his thumb into the pool of clear kiddiecum that was smeared on my cockhead and was accumulating in the opening of my foreskin. He rubbed the cum between his fingers as though gauging its viscosity. The other boys were touching me all over, stroking my chest and tummy, squeezing my arms, rubbing my thighs, murmuring their fascination and approval, and congratulating me on my performance. It was wonderful, and for a good few minutes I reveled in their attention. Firstly, I loved having my body stroked and explored by so many little curious hands, but I was also aware that my stiffie was unwavering, and Little Cloud never went down after just one cum. He was still proudly standing to attention, clearly bolstered by the spectacle he had created. Of course it was blatant narcissism on my part, but then I always did have a very dominant streak of exhibitionism in me. I think all shota boys did. You couldn't really perform on demand unless you had some semblance of vanity about you.

Standing off to the side, I could see Spider languishing somewhere behind Kenni. He made no attempt to reach in and touch me, but I could see that he was clearly caught up in the general permissiveness of this whole scenario, but I wasn't sure if he was able to override his inhibitions enough to join in. He was admiring me with a cool, detached kind of fascination, and he had that look of longing in his eyes, like he wished the other boys weren't there and he could be alone with me so we could do stuff together. Tell the truth, Spider was very attractive. Yes, Kenni was handsome, but whereas Kenni was quite blatantly good-looking, Spider's beauty was more innate. Spider had this pent-up prettiness about him, a latent and reserved sexual allure that almost craved the opportunity to flourish. With that pearly complexion and rust-colored hair, and his dark, mysterious eyes. No sir, I wasn't averse to the idea of fucking around with him, not one little bit.

Simon-Peter then got up on the table, clearly spurred on by the general mood of 'anything goes'. He clambered up and knelt down next to me. He leaned over and sucked up the kiddiecum that was drying on my body, his little lips gently skimming the skin on my chest and tummy. Tell the truth, it was very arousing. Then, like a true spunkboy, Simon-Peter closed in and firmly attached his little mouth to mine, kissing me hard. In doing so, he fed my kidspunk back into my own mouth. The other boys gasped. They had never seen such explicit antics. Simon-Peter surprised even me. I had never taught him anything about cum-swapping or snowballing. Evidently this was something he decided to do all by himself. It was a good indication that my sexual mentoring of him had paid off. I had always encouraged him to do what he felt like, to listen to his body and go with his instincts. Evidently I had taught him well. What a horny, dirty little tyke he was. I was so proud of him.